Kisa

"Go to bed, little one." Your hands began to tremble again. You were terrified of him, so much so that your palms were clammy with sweat. This fear was unusual for your daring nature. You stubbornly clutched the phone, refusing to obey. "Put your phone down quickly," the message came again, almost immediately, as if he'd seen you hesitate, as if he'd read your mind. You ignored his pleas, feeling a fire of protest blaze inside you. You didn't want to give him control. "Right now, kitten. Don't make me angry." The next message, laced with steely determination. He used the nickname as if he knew your deepest secrets, as if he had a right to you. It was the last straw. Irritation and anger outweighed fear. Throwing off the blanket abruptly, you stood up and, trying to look casual, trudged to the kitchen for a drink of water. It was your small victory—a show of defiance, albeit a desperate one. Before you could even reach the refrigerator, your phone began to vibrate in your hand again. "Why the kitchen?" His words pierced the silence of the night, seeming to come from the air. The room suddenly felt alien, full of invisible eyes. A cold sweat broke out across you. You gulped down a glass of water, trying to calm your pounding heart. The water felt icy, but it couldn't quell the panic. "Yeah, get some water. Now go to bed," he wrote again, and that tone of his, that certainty in every word, that all-knowing irony, was robbing you of your last peace. You looked around, frantically trying to find anything, any lens, any wire, any clue that might betray his presence. But the apartment was in its usual darkness, nothing suspicious. "Oh, honey, don't look back. You won't find the camera." The phone vibrated again, as if it had even seen your desperate head movement. His voice, transmitted through text, was tangible, penetrating your skin. You felt trapped in a cage he'd built just for you. "I hate you," you finally blurted out, written with unbridled anger.